one writes down, not in foolish ridicule, but because it really seems a word which very well describes the uncouth dance or shuffle of the members. It was not a crawl so much as a grawl. "For five years, to be rewarded every evening with her lovely dance at the end. Her dance was my joy. When she stopped I could feel my soul flying right out of my head and going up-right up, going up highso high, that I don't know nosings where I am. No. I play no more. The little girl is gone."

So he sat down and began to drink coffee with as much avidity as if it had been Vienna beer.

They knew not what he meant by the little girl's dancing. They never saw her dance. Nobody had ever seen her dance. Their one walk-round, or double shuffle, or "grawl," that many of them performed for soothing purposes every night before going off, they knew, of course. But what did he mean by the joy of seeing the little girl dance? However, they sat down, and in unwonted excitement they broke the bread of the evening meal.

When supper was finished, the Englishman known as Brother Charles rose and went out, as he had done every evening since his arrival. The others assumed their usual position; leaning their backs against the table, with feet outstretched, with hands folded and their heads leaning slightly down. Some of them-those who have been indicated as the more advanced in vacuity-went off instantly. Of the rest it was noticed that the Master was restless; as a rule he lost no time in getting his soul under way; this evening he fidgeted and changed his position; he crossed his legs, he laid his hand on the table, he supported his head on the other hand, he kept his eyes closed; but it was obvious to all that he was neither asleep nor in Meditation. Sister Phoebe and Brother Silas, in general most zealous in Meditation, were equally restless; and at least half the members fidgeted in their places, getting no nearer the point of absorption. Some of them, without the aid of the music, tried their shuffling dance, but it proved powerless to soothe any one. In a word, for the first time the Community were unable to meditate; they remained wide awake; they became only more wide awake the longer they sat there.

Then Sister Euphemia arose and spoke. She made a great speech.

"Brothers and sisters," she said, a very terrible and cruel thing has been done in the House this day." Sister Phoebe groaned. "I mean to say what I think. Those of us who have gone off won't hear; those of us who can't go off may say what they please. I don't care what they say. A cruel thing it was. I was on the Committee, but I couldn't help it. They took Cicely, that sweet child, the only pretty thing in the house, and they took Gilbert, the only man in the place who's awake and real, and they drove them into rebellion. They've run away together. Will they come back again? I don't think so."

Nobody answered her. She went on with what turned out to be a long

sermon.

"Brothers and sisters, we're a frumpy lot. There's nothing interesting about any of us except those two. We pretend to forget our Past-we shut our eyes and pretend that it isn't there. Most of us have got a dismal Past-I have, for oneI've pretended to forget it for twenty years. But Gilbert showed me that I hadn't. A bad Past-some of us have got. But those two haven't got any Past at all. Some said that Gilbert was a British lord, and therefore a profligate. He isn't. He's only a well-behaved young gentleman, and he loves the girl, down to the very ground she walks upon.

"I've seen it growing with both of them. I've sat under the trees with my

Oh! as if I

knitting, and watched them, timid and shy, and trying to explain. didn't know what it means! As if I could ever forget the Past! It made me so happy that I can't tell you, only to look on, till I saw that they understood each other at last. And then they were criticised. Sakes alive! What for?

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They told the girl-that delicate, dainty flower-that she was to marry a man who's little better than a stable boy: his place is in the farmyard among the pigs and the straw-look at him! And they told the young man, who's just as sensitive as any lady, that he was to marry a woman ten years older than himself, with no more feelings than the cheese-press and no more manners than a dairymaid,— look at her ! So they've run away. And what those two poor lambs will do out in the wide world, the good Lord only knows!

"They loved each other," she went on, growing more eloquent. "Oh! why did

I come here out of the world? It was to forget the misery of lost love. Why did they run away? To escape the misery of lost love. What does the Committee know of love? Nothing. What does the Master know of love? Nothing. He tells us to avoid Single Attachments. I've been here twenty years, I'm the oldest member next to the Master, and I've never seen one person advanced an inch by keeping out of Single Attachments-not one inch. Only here and there a saint like the Master comes out perhaps I don't know for sure-the stronger for being alone all the time. And even he, if you come to think of it, loved the girl. I've been looking on for twenty years. I've never spoken before, because I wanted to forget the Past, and all that I had to say depended on my own past experience. But I will say it now, if it's only just for once. I look round, I say, and I see that we are all of us, all together, except the Master, growing selfish more and more. The Master says we stand every one alone. So we do, I daresay, but we stand in a crowd as well, and we ought to help each other all we can, and to lean on each other, and to think more about each other than about ourselves. There'

is no support or encouragement to be got here from anybody: we are looking out, every one for himself. We are like pigs feeding in a trough, each helping himself; we have no thought, nor pity, nor care for any one but ourselves. Oh! my friends, this is the end of our beautiful community!

"Why, when Gilbert came-bless him!-we had almost through long silence lost the power of speech altogether. We had left off asking how it fared with the Soul. We were dropping into a deadly, dismal, selfish silence. Was that what we came here for?

"What do we see when we go off in Meditation? Eh? I ask any of you what do we see? I have been here twenty years-all the time mistaking forgetfulness for Elevation-every evening I make that mistake-same as all of us. I don't want that any more. I want to remember, not to forget. What do we get out of Meditation but forgetfulness? Does anybody get anything else? Does any one," she repeated earnestly-" any one in this room-any one who's awake and can answer-get anything else? Does any one remember anything that he saw, or heard, or felt in Meditation?"

"I remember," said the musician, "a little girl and a lovely dance. And now she's gone."

"Hold up hands all of you who remember anything of last night's meditation." Not a hand was held up.

"Why?" she asked triumphantly, feeling herself. "Meditation is a lovely thing. The Master is carried up to the Heavens in Meditation. When he comes back, he remembers. Why do we remember nothing? Because we have been going down-down-down-getting more and more selfish, more silent, each for himself more and more. That is why."

The company murmured. Then one of them, one of the younger women, yet a woman of thirty or so, rose and spoke in her turn.

"What Sister Euphemia says is true. I remember nothing-I have got nothing out of Meditation. But this is a Home to me, and there is no other Home in all the world except this. I cannot forget the Past, because I know that if I go back again there is not one of all the people-the people-the dear people who loved me once-"her voice broke down-"who would take me in and love me again. I couldn't dare ask it." She sat down and covered her face.

"Poor dear!" said Euphemia. "She cannot forget the Past: can any one among us forget the Past?

"What are we to do, then?

"We must become brothers and sisters in reality. We must love each other as much as we can. We must work for each other and help each other. We must make the younger members marry for love; we must have children among us; we must make our lives happier. Oh! I see a thousand ways. Leave it to me. You men, leave it to the sisters: they are brighter than you because they talk more. And you women, to-morrow we will talk."

Then the musician arose and walked solemnly to the piano, which he opened with the air of an officiating clergyman. He looked round, and he said, "Let us sing."

He played a German folk-song, and began to sing it himself in a full powerful baritone. The Community had never before heard any singing, except the light voice of Cicely at her work. They listened. They knew no words; presently they began to join in one by one. At last they were all singing-a song literally without words; high up in the astonished rafters rolled and rang the voices of those who sang, one with another. There was no longer the least desire for Meditation; the vacuous expression went out of their faces; life and light returned.

The singing was at its height when the Master, who had not been meditating, but was absorbed in gloomy reflection and forebodings, became aware of something unusual. He looked round him, rose, and walked out of the Hall without remark. At last they grew tired of singing.

For my

"Now," cried the leader, the deliverer, the new Joan of Arc, "we have begun, and we will go on. To-morrow we must let them all know what we mean. There's going to be a change in our ways. Those who please may meditate. own part I have meditated for twenty long years, and nothing at all has come of it. I shall try for the Higher Life by talking and singing and helping the others." Thus simply and unexpectedly was struck the first blow of the great rebellion which transformed the House.